


Satire’s plaything

by notveryhandy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23865274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notveryhandy/pseuds/notveryhandy
Summary: Adric, for some inexplicable reason, becomes the Master.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck you looms. Fuck you all for making me write this.

Honestly, if he hadn’t been so busy regenerating he might have spared a thought for how twisted and unamusing reality was. If the universe had a sense of humour, the Doctor didn’t want to know its idea of a practical joke. He hoped this wasn’t some gallows humour, that he wasn’t satire’s plaything on a grand scale.

Although having to deal with the Master in a child’s body felt like an extremely _im_ practical joke. The Doctor certainly wasn’t laughing right now.

Well, mostly. The Master being so short was just a little bit entertaining.

* * *

Context, of course, might be helpful. He’d ended up on his Tardis with two normal people and one irritating criminal, as well as no more Adric. Technically speaking, Adric was dead, which now that he thought about it was slightly horrifying.

Something was bugging him. Why, of all people, would the Master choose _Adric?_ Even ‘literal walking corpse’ was better than possessing a teenager.

Which, of course, was an assumption, since the Doctor had never tried possessing teenagers, or being a corpse.

Maybe he could try it out someday.

* * *

Even the destruction of a large chunk of the universe bit wasn’t so bad now that he thought about it. No, the really pathetic, embarrassing bit was being killed by a child. An annoying child who would not shut up about maths, and thought having a mop for hair was stylish.

Frankly, it was an even worse offence than that dratted scarf he used to wear, the one that was currently being torn to pieces by the Master. The Master looked up to see Nyssa and Tegan glaring at him, and quickly went back to dissecting that horrible multicoloured monstrosity.

Really, there had to be better things to do than for him to sit here dazed and pick apart old clothing.

* * *

This whole thing was one huge, elaborate fuck-up. From leaving a large section of the universe to crash and burn, to stealing an innocent child’s body, to pushing the Doctor off a telescope, not one good thing had come out of Logopolis.

Actually, that wasn’t true. Adric has finally shut up enough for the Doctor to think, and he’d been able to rectify some mistakes (ahem, fashion choices).

The Doctor mentally labelled Logopolis “The Incident” and decided (with very little regret) never to mention it again.

He wondered if the library had any guides on how to deal with your ex stealing your teenager’s body, and then realised no, it did not. The Tardis beeped at him as if to say _I can’t believe this is happening. You are the worst and nobody normal ever had to deal with shit like this._

Which, to be fair... was probably true.

* * *

Hanging off that radio tower had not been fun. Nor had seeing Adric’s face turned from gleeful child to a twisted, infuriating smirk so instantly recognisable as _Master._

It felt wrong to be calling Adric (or was it the Master?) by a name like that. This was the worst kind of identity crisis, without a doubt. But indulging the Master was easy, far too easy, a habit born of love and affection and all sorts of emotions he really shouldn’t have felt.

Staring up into Adric’s (the Master’s) eyes was terrifying. Falling off, hitting the ground, knowing he’d still have to face _that_ was worse.

The Doctor had never been a paragon of virtue, but it wasn’t very easy to get people to trust him when the Master kept on stealing the bodies of his friends.

He wondered idly what had happened to Tremas, and then decided that, actually, he didn't want to know.

* * *

The Master was frowning, now. 

“What’s wrong?” the Doctor asked, trying to dredge anger or alarm from his mind, which was currently repeating Queen on a loop instead of contributing something useful to this discussion.

_-put a gun against his head, pull the trigger now he’s dead-_

Why oh why did he have such an obnoxious brain. “Are you alright?”

Tegan glared, Nyssa stared - ooh, that rhymed! - both probably thinking _What the fuck is wrong with you._

Honestly, he had no idea. He should go find a therapist. “Nothing’s _wrong,_ per se,” the Master said.

“So...”

_-you got mud on your face, you big disgrace-_

Queen was good. Lyrics like that at a time like this was mildly concerning. 

“Nothing much,” the Master murmured, “but this body is so... how do I put it?”

“Infuriating?”

“I think the word is - no, you’re right.”

Well that was a relief. Ish.

* * *

“I have never understood your desires for companionship,” the Master said. “Actually, correction: I have never understood your desires, full stop.”

What a shocker. “Good to know,” the Doctor said blandly. Anger was certainly a more apt emotion, but he was mostly bored.

Given Adric was dead, this was probably not a good thing. The Master seemed to notice this, and stood up. “Is this a little petty game to you? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. How much do I have to do? What more do I have to destroy, Doctor?”

“You know, a good friend of mine once likened you to a cat. You turn up with offerings of dead bodies and constantly try to gain my attention, but as soon as I give you what you want it is suddenly a cardinal offence to accept anything I have.”

“Agree to disagree, my dear Doctor.”

Rassilon, that was strange to hear. “How about no.”

This mess just kept on getting worse.

* * *

The final question was, of course, Doctor Who-

No, wrong era. Or something. The Master leaned up and grabbed him by the collar, grimacing at the slightness of his new form. The Doctor didn’t much like that, and made that clear by his muffled remarks.

Hopefully. It might sound a bit mangled through the layers of cloth in his mouth. The Master sneered, pressing a blade to his throat.

At that moment, Tegan walked in. “Oh, sorry,” she snapped, “don’t mind if I put the washing out, do you?”

Apparently even in the vortex you still had to do the washing. “Back to our conversation,” the Master hissed.

He winced. The blade was really quite unnecessary. Being threatened by Adric was already suitably messed up for today, thank you very much.

The Master stepped back. “Mind if I leave you here? You make quite the sight.”

Tegan groaned and dumped her dirty clothing in the washing machine, which really ruined the atmosphere.

* * *

None of this made any sense! Why steal _Adric’s_ body, and not someone remotely decent (like him, he thought, humble as always)? Why stay in the Tardis and repeatedly threaten her various inhabitants with knives when the door was _wide open?_

 _I’m really not enjoying this,_ the Doctor thought glumly. It was possibly an unnecessary comment, but...

Well, it was true. Why would anyone enjoy this strange, unsettling back-and-forth fight they had going on? Also, consent issues (and just issues) much? The Doctor sighed, and locked the door to Adric’s - now the Master’s, because why stop at bodies, apparently - with an irritated sigh.

Sometime this regeneration he was going to kick the Master out, really, truly.

For now, though, it seemed he was stuck with two creeped-out humans (or close enough) and a teenage criminal who might well blow him up someday.

Brilliant. Just _brilliant._

That last comment didn’t come out as bitter as intended. Maybe he need to work on the sarcasm (and not getting kids turned into evil caricatures of themselves).

_-Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me-_

He threw the radio which had been playing in the background against the wall, and watched the machinery click and crack, falling to pieces in an almost satisfying way.

If reality had a sense of humour, then he wanted no more part in this dark comedy.


	2. Oh, Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rory is the Master this time.

It was easy to pinpoint the moment he changed. The Doctor was good at sensing these things.

A nod. A slight ripple. Maybe reality altered, maybe it had always been that way, but there was the most imperceptible sense of _difference._

And then there was Rory with a gun, and this felt awfully familiar.

* * *

There was no light. Watching all the joy drain from Rory’s face was like being dehydrated in ten seconds, going from perfectly normal and natural to twisted and wrong and watching your friend’s mind buckle.

Rory smiled politely, brushed the walls with new exhilaration, hands reaching out to touch the world in a way he probably hadn’t felt in decades. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

The Doctor nodded. “Yeah?”

Rory-probably-not-Rory smiled. It looked like a grimace. “It’s so very strange, to be alive like this again.”

“What do you mean?” the Doctor asked. Asked, did not know: that scared him.

A lot scared him.

* * *

“Oh, Doctor.” A plaintive sort of sigh. “Amy’s going to be so sad, isn’t she?”

Yes. Yes, she was. So was the Doctor.

A lot of people, countless - impossible to count - would be hurt. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Do what?” Rory slipped down from the console in a far more graceful way than he ever had before. That in itself was worrying.

“Leave. Change. You could stay here, on the Tardis. With me,” the Doctor clarified.

Rory - the Doctor decided it might be better to label him as the Master from now on - snorted. “No thank _you._ ”

Harsh, unnecessarily so (or so the Doctor thought).

* * *

Amy looked at him. Ro - the Master, that was - snickered. “So nice to see you, little Pond. So very very nice.”

The Doctor shuddered. “Master, stop.”

The Master sneered.

“Please.”

Still nothing. “Doctor, what’s happened to Rory? What did you _do_ with him?” Amy asked, turning on the Master. “Tell me!”

“Oh, nothing much. Not that it matters. He’s gone now, isn’t he?”

Yes. He was.

Amy looked at him, as if to say-

_You can’t be serious._

But he was. Oh, he was.

Rassilon, what a mess.


End file.
